Silent Screams
by Daladakea
Summary: Newt is dead and is watching his friends, keeps trying to tell them that he's there, but they can't hear him. No matter how loud he screams. Song in here is mine. Please leave a review!


**A/N Hello everyone! Got this idea out of nowhere while I was homeschooling the other day. Maybe Newt's ghost transcended dimensions and gave me the idea or something, but I think the plot bunny just decided to make a random visit.**

 **Anyway, the characters are James Dashner's but the song is mine, so please don't use it without my permission. Thanks! And now, on with the story!**

 **Warning! Very sad!**

 _I'm standing alone on a dark night,_

 _no moon and no stars._

 _Storm clouds on the horizon,_

 _Bolts of lightning become jagged scars._

Newt was watching the Immunes camp from his vantage point, floating about twenty or so feet in the air. He could see them all getting everything tied down, he could see them trying to save the firewood and food. He saw Minho and Thomas, running about like the rest, but they didn't smile or race anyone like the others. Newt knew why.

 _The storm is approaching,_

 _the wind is howling,_

 _the river is roaring in the valley,_

 _and I scream, silently._

As the lightning and thunder drew closer, the wind picked up and blew tarps around. The people's game of racing to see who could do the most fastest turned into trying to capture all the flying supplies. The river had swelled past it's banks sometime earlier that day, and now it was almost in the camp. It looked like it might hold off, but if not...

"I told you we should've moved the tents this morning!" Thomas yelled to Minho.

"Yeah, well I didn't think it was more important at the time than trying to fight off those cougars that tried to get the food!" Minho yelled back angrily.

"Stop fighting and start working!" Brenda shouted at them.

"We are!" They yelled back at her.

Newt saw the river swell some more. He yelled, trying to get his friends to seek higher ground. But they didn't hear him. His yells turned to screams, ones that he could hear loud and clear, but apparently weren't audible to the living.

 _Tears of fear, remorse and shame,_

 _trail down my cheeks in silent blame._

 _What had I been thinking that day_

 _When I told you to throw my life away?_

Once everyone had tied down everything that could be tied down, they headed inside their little tent shelters made securely from the branches of trees and sticks and twigs woven into the framework, leaves stuffed into the gaps. Newt watched everything as the lightning became searingly bright and the thunder reached deafening heights. The rain continued to pour down in whole waterfalls.

It was a strange sensation, not being blinded by the blinding lightning, deafened by the deafening thunder, or soaked by the soaking rain. But Newt guessed that was one of the few perks of being dead. And he'd grown used to it. Really, he could've floated into the tents, space wasn't a problem, and watch his friends and the other Immunes, but then he'd feel hopeless again, wanting so badly to join their laughter and tell them stories and hear theirs. Newt barely realized he was crying in anguish. It happened so frequently that it was almost constant, and he'd gotten used to that too. He didn't know that ghosts had tears, but it seemed that they had everything in their own dimension, everything except for the friends still living. He was afraid, not really of the storm, but for Thomas and Minho and everyone else in it. He began remembering, mainly out of loneliness, about the last thing he'd ever done on Earth. What had he been thinking? He could've accepted Thomas' offer of tying him up until a cure could be found, he could've written himself notes or dictate what he wanted to write, he could've done calming excerises to slow the Flare down. But he hadn't. He'd told Thomas, his dear friend to shoot him.

 _Someone stands there and cries,_

 _Their tears mixing in the rain, from stormy skies._

 _He's old friend,nursing his broken heart,_

 _And I fall apart!_

At some point in that night, the rain slowed to a moderate drizzle and the lightning and thunder moved on. Newt saw Thomas, walking out and standing there in the rain, trying not to cry, but tears falling anyway. Newt feels his heart tug. Poor Thomas! Newt knew he'd put his friend through too much. Dying was one thing, asking a friend to pull the trigger was another, and now Thomas was feeling the overwhelming grief and guilt. And Newt began bawling as he watched his friend suffer because of his poor decision.

 _Someone hear my silent screams!_

 _Just realize I'm still here,_

 _Turn and face me, talk to me,_

 _Please hear me, please see me!_

 _I beg, just one more time, talk to me._

"Please, Tommy! I'm still here with you! Please don't suffer anymore. I'm the one who told you to do it, it wasn't your fault. Please just see me Tommy, one time, see me. Talk to me!" But Thomas doesn't hear him, can't hear him.

 _Someone walks up to him in the rain,_

 _Together they share their held in pain._

 _And he says, "What would he say?_

 _What would he do, if he were alive today?"_

At some point, Minho found Thomas, who was now sitting on the ground, crying hard enough and loud enough to wake the dead, (although, Newt mused to himself, he was already dead and still aware, so that old saying must be just that, an old saying.)

"Minho, why did I do it? Why?" Thomas said between sobs. He'd told Minho a while ago about his killing Newt.

"Because he asked you too. It's fine. You did nothing wrong Thomas." Minho said. Newt was thinking the same thing. He was glad Minho had taken the words out of his mouth.

"What would he do if he were here with us? What would he say to us?" Thomas asked, sniffling. Minho hugged him for a moment, uncharacteristic of him, but he did it.

 _And the other one said in a weary way,_

" _It doesn't matter, he's gone anyway."_

 _And I yelled, "No, look! I'm right here!"_

 _I shout and scream it in their ears._

"It doesn't really matter, Thomas, he's gone, but I think he'd play with all the little kids, I think he'd help the elderly with their work, I think he'd talk to other teens and adults, give advice whenever possible. You knew him, loved everyone. Cheerful, helpful. Good ol' Newt. I miss him too. I wish he were here." Minho's voice hitched just a little.

Newt loved what they were saying and doing, he'd have done all those things if he were still alive, he'd have been there, helping. And nearly everything they said, he'd have said.

But he couldn't get over the fact that nobody knew he was there, and his being "gone" was really hurting Thomas and Minho.

"Look at me you fools! I'm right here next to you! Can't you see me? I'm right here!" He knew it was futile, but now and again, he tried. He walked right up to their ears and yelled and screamed for all he was worth and they still couldn't hear him. Finally, he just collapsed, bawling and trying to hug them. His "arms" passed right through, but he pretended.

 _But no matter how hard I try,_

 _No matter how much I cry,_

 _They can't hear my pleas,_

 _or see my tears!_

 _Oh how I wish somebody'd hear my silent screams,_

 _Oh how I wish they could see my tears,_

 _But they can't hear me,_

 _Can't see me_

 _and can't know I'm there._

It seemed there was little comfort for the dead. Newt could've gone off and lived his afterlife with all the other ghosts, who had all they ever needed when they needed it.

But he didn't feel right leaving his friends until they were happy again, he wanted to watch them and protect them. But no matter how hard he tried to communicate with them, they couldn't hear him or see him

"Because I'm a ghost, and they're not. But we are all dead." He muttered to himself.

They may not be literally dead, but they were more hollow versions of themselves in their grief. Newt knew they'd never really get over it, but they would get better he knew.

Until then though, he was going to stay near them and grieve with them.

 **A/N Hope you liked it! Please review!:) Again, the song is mine, please don't use it without permission.**


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